


Minutos de Tregua

by Little_Winchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Sam Winchester, Blow Jobs, M/M, PWP, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Stanford Student Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22034077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Winchester/pseuds/Little_Winchester
Summary: In which Sam realizes a couple of things.
Relationships: Real Tyson Brady/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Minutos de Tregua

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Natalia Lacunza's 'gata negra' Translates to minutes of truce/ lull. Your choice.

He'd felt ridiculous and fifty kinds of moronic when he'd stepped out of their room. Werewolf, demon - that was acceptable for Halloween, right? Brady hadn't even bothered, just shrugged on this leather jacket and said he hunted monsters. Sam had choked on a snort, and Brady had tossed him a crimson cheerleader's outfit, STANFORD printed glossy on the shirt. A smirk; a dare.

Anyway.

Maria had cheered; Olivia and Ben had laughed and praised him, Olivia on the choice of costume and Ben on the length of his skirt. Brady had looked at him with something like approval twinkling in his eyes, something _deeper_ than that, and Sam had shivered involuntarily. 

Still. He knew he looked stupid with it on.

It doesn't feel so stupid now, not with Brady's fingers raking through his hair and his thick cock heavy in Sam's mouth. He's lightheaded from the booze, from the dick nudging the back of his throat and there are tears beading up in his eyes as he takes it deeper anyway. It's exhilarating and new and strange because it's _Brady._ God, Brady. He thinks he's falling in love with the chlorine tips of Brady's hair when he looks down at him, haloed by the yellow tint of the sodium lights; the red of his lips where he's bitten them; the catch of his fingertips, whisper-soft over Sam's jaw. Sam pulls off, slurps at the head and Brady laughs, breathless.

"Jesus, Sam," he pants, and Sam sucks at the finger tracing his lips, laps up the salt and bites down on the pad of his thumb. Brady shudders; Sam thinks about kissing him until his lips are puffy, and it throws him how much he _wants_.

Sam replaces Brady's thumb with his dick again, feather-kisses beneath the mushroom tip and down to the root, a slow lick from his balls and up again.

Brady groans. "Don't _tease_ ," he hisses, but he strokes Sam's hair again, undoes the half-bun he'd put it in and runs calloused fingers over the shell of his ear. His eyes are red from the weed he'd shared with Sam earlier, but he watches Sam like it's the first time he's seen him and there's this _softness_ in his eyes that makes his gut clench. Sam wonders for how long Brady's been looking at him like that; wonders if he's caught the same expression on Sam.

Brady shifts, nudges a foot between Sam's legs and Sam gasps when he feels rough pressure on his dick, his thighs. He clutches Brady's hips, nuzzles at his balls and downy hair. Tries to keep down the whine he can feel escaping him. 

Tries to make his whisper sound a little less like a broken _"Please."_

Brady laughs again, but it's light and breathless and tingles like disbelief in his ears. "'Course," he murmurs. He tugs Sam's head away and squeezes his own dick, slides his foot forwards and presses upwards and Sam _melts_. His dick's dribbling precome on Sam's lip so Sam nudges forwards, swallows down. Brady sighs. Sam soars.

He shoves a hand down over his dick, squeezes through the skirt. He knows Brady can feel his groan, pulls off so he can lave messy at the tip. He rucks up the skirt, feels for the waistband of his boxers-

Brady drags his foot up. Sam's eyes roll back.

"What was that for?" He croaks, jacks Brady's length while he regains his breath. 

The tips of Brady's ears bloom red. "Can you -uh," he says, groans when Sam sucks a bruise into his thigh. "Through your skirt?" He pants.

A laugh stutters in his chest, and the stars in Brady's eyes make something inside him ache. "Yeah. Yeah," Sam whispers. He shoves his underwear down, lets his dick tent up the skirt. A blurt of precome darkens the red fabric when he squeezes himself. He shudders at the satin-soft feeling of it, the way Brady's fingers pull at his hair.

He grinds the heel of his palm down on his cock and takes Brady's back into his mouth, sucks and swallows and hums and lets his hips twitch forwards as he jerks off, listens out for Brady's little gasps when he does.

Brady groans. "Sam, I'm - _fuck_ ," he spits, and Sam takes him to the root, feels him nudge the back of his throat and swallows through the tears. 

"C'mon," Brady whispers, lazy and sex-loose as he leans back. "I want to see you too," he says, just enough of an order to make lightning zing up his spine. He jacks off roughly, shudders when he spends himself and stains the skirt darker. 

For a minute, Sam doesn't move, lets their panting fill the limbo-like quiet of the tiny bathroom. Brady's looking at him again, tapping his finger against the wall in that nervous tick of his. Sam reaches for his hand instinctively, and blushes. Shivers. Christ. He just sucked his best friend off, and he's getting flushed over holding his hand.

Brady's gentle, undemanding, when he pulls him up; his warmth bleeds through Sam's sleeves, spills over his skin like it belongs there.

Cornflower eyes virgin-wide. Hands move over his body like they're mapping him, and Brady says, "So, uh-"

Sam ducks his head and kisses him, soft, like he's new at this, too.

Beneath the heat of the night, of the steam of Brady's breath and of the broad-palmed curve around his waist, the tangle of fingers in his hair, he can feel the curve of a smile .

He thinks he's going to like it here.

**Author's Note:**

> Sam is queer and you can't tell me otherwise.


End file.
